


foolish devouring

by demios



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Blood, Other, bastardization of game mechanics, like a microscopic crumb of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: The Ashen One repays a debt.
Relationships: Ashen One/Ringfinger Leonhard
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	foolish devouring

**Author's Note:**

> [ashen one voice] bro stop engaging in blood ministry you're scaring the hoes
> 
> idk what this is or how i got here but this sure exists now

“I do believe I require recompense for my services,” is the first thing Leonhard says when they return to the safety of Rosaria’s bedchamber.

In the moment that it takes for the Ashen One to orient themselves to the thick scent of incense and myriad flickering candles, he stands over them expectantly with his arms crossed, the brim of his tricorne casting a shadow over his silver mask.

They blink up at him in muted surprise from their spot on the dingy rug - their worlds had crossed earlier, that much was true, but they didn’t think he would accompany them back to the Cathedral. 

A sudden relief washes over them; in their solitary, onerous duty, companions were few and far in between. Often they were only accompanied by their own winding thoughts and the pounding of their heart in their ears, the cyclical ruminations of their accursed fate slowly whittling away at their sense of self. They are immensely grateful for the reprieve from isolation, if only for a moment. It was rare the other Fingers spent time idling in the Cathedral, and rarer still they stayed long enough for a proper rest. The lack of anyone else in the chamber was proof of such an occurrence.

But their relief immediately gives way to apparent confusion upon hearing his demand, and one that hardly gave them time to pick themselves up from the floor. “Services?” The Ashen One echoes. Because that would imply they willfully summoned Leonhard into their sphere of existence rather than the other appearing at the last possible moment and stealing their kill.

“Need I remind you?” He steps back, allowing them to stand and dust themselves off. “We who serve our mistress are unfettered in our allegiances save the one. I did not do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“It’s not as if I _asked_ you to show up,” their brow furrows, their mood further spoiled. “And even if I did, why indulge me now, of all times?” Leonhard made it perfectly clear he preferred to act on his own agenda, and it was one that certainly didn’t take them into account. Outside of their chance encounters at the putrid altar of their mistress, he had little reason to approach them.

“Why are _you_ deviating from your duty as lordseeker?” He counters.

They lack a rebuttal for the accusation, their jaw snapping shut. They are silenced by the shame of realizing they had indeed spent several bells fooling about to no avail, all while the fire was slowly dying. The pointed observation has their mind scrambling for an adequate excuse. _Because the lords were loath to be dragged back to their thrones, because preying upon unsuspecting undead was a way to seize embers for their duty and relieve their growing frustration, because offering up pale tongues gave them a potent, fleeting gratification that left them wanting-_

The turmoil must have shown on their face because Leonhard simply shakes his head with a click of his tongue. “Believe me when I say I do not think less of you for it. We are Undead but yet human; better to embrace what desires you have now before you have none left.” He chuckles lowly. “And it is preferable to spending your undeath toiling over a vague prophecy, don’t you agree?”

_Whimsy._ Of course. Why else would he have forced their worlds to merge? The answer was obvious, yet the Ashen One cannot help but be annoyed with themselves for hoping otherwise.

“You’re getting quite bold with your invasions, even for unkindled ash.” He notes airily. “Something troubling you?”

“Nothing.” The Ashen One replies curtly. Nothing except that this was likely the longest they had spoken since he introduced them to the concept of the Fingers. They cannot accurately read his intent, and what little they knew marked him as irritatingly capricious. For how eagerly he had encouraged them to join the ranks of his covenant, he declined to acknowledge them afterwards, leaving a bitter taste in their mouth. They remain wary, raising a brow. “What would you have of me, then?”

“You're not possessed of anything particularly appealing at the moment,” Leonhard gives them an exaggerated glance from head to toe, taking in their mismatched attire, “so I’ll share in the fruits of your labor. After all, were it not for my timely arrival, I doubt you would be walking about with that many souls.”

“Souls? Why not a tongue?” They ask.

“Because it was your attempted invasion, after all. It rightly belongs to you, even if I did save you from your fantastic blunder.” The Ashen One grimaces upon recalling their earlier mistake. 

They had gotten overzealous in pursuing their prey, neglecting to realize they had been led into unfavorable terrain, then ambushed like an amateur. A well-aimed bolt of the knight’s sorcery had spared them a split jugular and another awakening at the bonfire, their foe suddenly reduced to ashes while atop their struggling form. Leonhard merely offered them a hand before pulling them to their feet when they hastily breathed a word of thanks. 

He made no mention of their incompetence - until now, where he was effectively using it as leverage.

The tap of Leonhard’s finger against the gleaming silver of his gauntlet draws them out of their reverie. “Hesitating? Are you _that_ reluctant to part with the spoils of your little mishap?”

“No it's not that, I simply haven't…” They gesticulate fruitlessly as they search for the words. “Just _how_ exactly do you intend to claim my souls?” 

If it was a tongue he wanted, the flaccid thing could be passed between them easily. But souls were frail, and often intangible. While they had some in their pack that were dense enough to fit into their palm, the Ashen One hadn't the faintest idea how to remove the ones squirming inside their vessel. They were affixed to their core like moths drawn to a flame; only the inopportune return to ash could release them.

“I see.” He brings a hand to his chin in thought. “Never done this before, have you? I should have expected as much.” Leonhard leans back against one dusty pew. “Souls become sovereignless when their vessel dies, and they flock to the nearest source of strength once they are freed.” The knight says, reiterating a process they were both intimately familiar with. “An exchange of souls between two vessels that are equal in wholeness and standing - without us killing one another like beasts, how do you believe that is achieved?”

The Ashen One cocks their head in curiosity. “…would the Fire Keeper have to mediate?” She was the only one who could freely usher souls between vessels that they were aware of.

Leonhard shakes his head. “There is no need for her intervention.”

They shrug, at a loss. The finer points of being undead were of no consequence to them - as far as they were concerned, their role was to accrue souls, succumb to an unfortunate death, then ungracefully limp back to the place they had died before forging on.

“It can be done through the blood.” He holds up one gloved finger as he explains. “There is always a certain danger in blood, isn't there? Tales of men who become corrupted and emboldened by partaking, and those who become fiercely covetous of their supposed blessings. A conduit for all sorts of vile things, but power as well, should it be sought.”

“So you need my blood,” They state slowly, wondering if that was the ultimatum he was offering them.

He nods. “Stagnant and congealed as it may be, slurrying about in that skin of yours. Unless, of course, you’d rather I skewer you like a pig. I would say the former is less work for the both of us. It would _pain_ me to slay a friend and fellow servant of the Goddess, no matter how transient our parting.”

The Ashen One rolls their eyes.

Leonhard removes himself from the pew with a short laugh. “Either way, it would be uncouth to involve our Mistress in the squabbles between her knights, and performing the necessary rites here would be an affront to the Goddess. I suggest we seek somewhere more private.”

-

_Somewhere more private_ turns out to be an abandoned study adjacent to Her bedchamber. 

Leonhard quickly ducks inside with the Ashen One in his wake, the two of them taking refuge in the chamber away from roaming knights and troublesome thralls. And away from the shuddering, heaving breaths of their Goddess and the glassy stare of Her deformed man-grub, with Leonhard’s oft-obscured gaze fixed solely on them.

They blame the shiver that courses up their spine on the residual incense from Rosaria's altar. “How do you intend to accomplish this… exchange?” They ask, their eyes adjusting to the dimmer room. “Are you going to give me a leeching?”

Leonhard snorts as he weaves between the scattered tables, lighting what few candles could be salvaged from disuse. “Not quite. Simply put, I’m going to carve you up a bit and claim my prize.” The knight stores his torch in his pack, joining them at one rotting table adorned by moth-eaten paper. 

Their head swivels towards him in surprise. “Come again?” What sort of ritual did he intend to subject them to?

“It is _communion,_ not that a faithless brute like you would understand.” He sighs, the exasperation in his tone evident. “Meant to bolster the spirit and deepen bonds and the like. It’s not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Now - armor off. The closer to your Darksign, the better.” 

The Ashen One cannot stifle the flicker of heat that passes through them as he patiently watches them. Whether it is from embarrassment or anticipation, they cannot discern; they are merely eager to put this transaction behind them as quickly as possible. They hesitantly acquiesce to his request, their hands slowly rising to unfasten the straps holding their breastplate together. Under his scrutiny, motions that were second nature have become accented with unnecessary fumbling, and the huff of amusement from Leonhard worsens their hasty attempts to pry off their sole form of protection. 

After what feels like an eternity, the last of their underlayers are set aside, leaving their bare chest exposed. They are keenly aware of the curse engraved over their heart even in the waning candlelight. Undead, then Unkindled - the meaning of the curse was lost to them aeons ago. They have no memories of anything that came before waking in the Cemetery of Ash, so the mark was far from a source of shame.

They muse on what it could mean to Leonhard, when he carried himself with an air of poise and pointed detachment. His refined garb barely gave any hints as to who he might have been prior to his undeath, and his proficiency in sorcery and repertoire of knowledge only muddled the possibilities. He looked distinctly out of place in the Cathedral and its festering muck, especially among the colorful selection of Fingers that passed through. 

But it was an unspoken agreement between Undead - the past carried little weight in comparison to one’s deeds after waking. Even Heysel, the most prone to chatter, shared nothing of her background with the Ashen One, simply content to list off her newest exploits and unorthodox discoveries before merrily taking her leave.

Leonhard sizes them up like a fresh kill. If the sight of their Darksign dredged up any memories, the impassive mask he bore concealed any sign of it. “This will do,” He makes a small sound of approval as he steps forth.

He places a hand on their sternum, seemingly contemplating the withered heart that beats beneath their skin. The touch is unexpectedly intimate, given the circumstances. They were used to being viciously gutted and torn apart; anything less was foreign, bordering on unpleasant. The Ashen One wonders if this is the extent of his supposed communion - nothing but the rise and fall of their chest beneath the thick leather of his glove, the sound of their breathing between them. 

But it could never be that simple, could it? The palm on their chest firmly pushes against them, urging them backwards. The Ashen One lets themselves be guided until they are backed into a pew, and Leonhard presses down on their shoulder until they are sitting on the grimy wood.

“Now, shall we begin?” He splays the hand fixed on their chest one last time, perhaps thinking on how disturbingly soft and scarred they are beneath their plate and chainmail. Or, perhaps, he was merely impressed by the fact that they were not sickeningly jaunt, or not reduced to leathery skin stretched over fragile ribs.

Leonhard reaches for the holster strapped to one thigh and unsheathes a silver dagger from its confines. The Ashen One notices that the dagger is surprisingly ornate, with an inscription on the blade they cannot read between the motions of its owner giving it a cursory wipe. The sleight of Leonhard’s hand gives them the impression that he does not want them to dwell on that particular detail; they try to find other avenues to direct their nervous energy, instead focusing on a stain stuck to one corner of the room.

He nudges their legs apart with one knee knocked against theirs, startling them. “Why so tense? You're telling me our Champion of Ash can weather sword and sorcery, but not,” Leonhard’s touch glosses over their Darksign with the intent to _take,_ and the Ashen One gasps, “this?”

“More common that other Undead are trying to kill you rather than engage in - whatever this is,” they mutter, swatting his hand away.

“Communion,” Leonhard says again; the sanctity of the word is lost in the low tones of his voice. 

The glint of candlelight on the blade draws their attention, allowing him to fit between their legs where they sit. He looms over them and peers at them from the inside of his mask. Gooseflesh prickles the Ashen One’s skin the longer he studies them - they catch a glimpse of what could be the color of a grayish iris before the angle of his head obscures it once again. 

Leonhard brings the dagger forth until the curve of it rests against their chest, just above their Darksign. The cool metal lightly traces a small pattern into their flesh in a prelude of what is to come. They can do naught but suppress the urge to squirm.

There is a certain blasphemy to the ceremony - they are hidden within the Cathedral where worse holy rites have been carried out, yet the Ashen One cannot help but feel there is a sense of _wrongness_ when it was not performed beneath the baleful eye of the Gods or before the filthy bed of a silent, decaying Goddess. It is a ritual purely between Undead, nothing less than an indulgence in an age of dying flame. Above all, there is an air of unwanted vulnerability to what should be an impersonal exchange. The pit of their stomach jumps with apprehension and an underlying excitement that worsens it. A gentle touch amid endless horrors was a rarity, but to be eager to share in _this?_ They must have been more deprived than they initially thought.

They appear to be the only one affected, thinking themselves in dizzying circles. Leonhard holds the edge of the blade against their flesh as if waiting for them to steady. “Calm yourself,” He says, coaxing them from their flurry of thoughts. “I’ll make this quick for both of our sakes. Just trust me, will you? At least for the moment.”

They wish they could. But Leonhard has become akin to a stranger now, far too close and without scathing remarks on the tip of his tongue. The Ashen One manages to force the stiffness in their shoulders away to preserve some of their dignity. They are given no warning before he presses on the edge of the blade hard enough to finally break skin.

The first incision makes sharp pain burst through their body. Their hand reaches towards the flask on their belt out of habit. _“Shite,”_ They grit through their teeth.

“You’ll have to forgo estus for now.” Leonhard absently chastises them without breaking his focus. “Sealing this wound would defeat the purpose of carving it in the first place.”

The Ashen One heeds his words and grasps the deteriorating edge of the pew instead. They know the shape he intended to inscribe into their skin, but the knowledge does little to abate the initial pain. Ash or otherwise, their body held the will to survive, and the repeated deaths had yet to fully numb them from bodily harm. The lack of adrenaline surging through them leaves the Ashen One to bear each neat stroke in undiluted detail. For a mercy, Leonhard works efficiently, sparing no time between the precise movements of his wrist. They faintly wonder if he was a chirurgeon in a past life.

The ordeal is over quickly as promised. The wound leaves nothing but a stinging pain as blood begins to well up from the connected cuts. They glance down when he pulls away, entranced by the shape of it. In the far reaches of their mind, they take a perverse pleasure in being marked, as if they could delude themselves into thinking they were special to him, like the first time they met in the warm glow of Firelink Shrine. Leonhard tucks the stained dagger away and wordlessly brings his palm to the rune now adorning their skin, smothering it. The Ashen One hisses when the persistent burning from their heart blooms outward and inward all at once.

The pervasive muck of the Cathedral weaves through the scent of iron. Their heart hammers wildly between their ribs, but they cannot tell if their blood is still warm within their corpse, or if the consistency is close to that of a living person’s. Honed instinct tells them to flee as it seeps into the leather of his glove. They stay their taut muscles and sink into the sound of Leonhard’s voice, straining to focus on his words over the rush of their frantic pulse.

“You’re doing well,” He murmurs the praise softly, slightly muffled behind his mask. “Be still for just a little longer.” Leonhard makes no other comment as he soaks his palm in the dark liquid, and they take meager comfort in his lack of complaint with whatever may be oozing out of them. The signature glow of sorcery gathers in his palm, then travels along the slow trickle of blood.

The sensation is familiar and foreign in turn. The Ashen One recognizes the shift of souls in their vessel, the wispy things churning about like a school of fish disturbed. But it is not like seeking strength from the Fire Keeper, who easily shepherds them away with her prayers. Leohard feels closer to a searching, fumbling hand, brushing and prodding at their insides when he is bereft of the same damned sight and whispered rites on his lips. Instead, he is silent as he concentrates on finding his quarry - the Ashen One unconsciously holds their breath, afraid of compromising his focus.

The knight’s hand has not left its place on their chest despite the distinct sensation of _something_ reaching deeper inside. The souls within their vessel respond in kind, darting about in a frenzy to slip out of his hold. The Ashen One surmises this was why Fire Keepers were responsible for the sovereignless souls that Undead held. Despite his delicate ministrations prior, their fluttering, scattered souls recognize him as an unwelcome intrusion when they had sought the solace of the Ashen’s One vessel.

It does not deter him, however, his posture composed. “I've seen the way you fight - like a savage beast on the hunt.” He says idly as he works, and the Ashen One is unsure if they should take the statement as a compliment.

“And what of it?” They ask, careful not to displace the hand resting against them.

“It’s admirable you would go to such lengths to procure offerings for our Mistress,” He replies simply - genuine, even. “I wouldn't be opposed to assisting you again if the time comes. Our Goddess would do well to have a loyal knight and his hound at her disposal, don’t you think?”

Any retort they may have had dies in their throat with a gasp - it feels as though his hand has coiled around their core, threatening to smother the last embers of their existence. Leonhard makes an intrigued noise upon locating his mark. The Ashen One stifles a growl, if only because it would prove his point.

The vise of his grip lessens, instead turning to ensnare the gathering of lesser souls irresistibly drawn to the bright flame of their own. Leonhard seizes his prize without pretense or decorum, as ruthless as they would imagine him during his invasions. He viciously stakes his claim, and the Ashen One feels as though it is akin to a harsh breeze that would snuff out the barely-warm coal at their core with one wrong movement. 

_Communion_ \- the word carries true when he greedily drinks of them, like ruby wine from the chalice. 

But there is an echo of him left behind when he brushes them again, their vision swimming between the dancing candles in the room for a visceral moment, a glimpse of something that belongs to him when he was in the midst of taking from them. The hand that connects them is still gloved, yet a flicker passes through their mind’s eye at the same time: the sight of his skin covered in mottled patches of red, visibly marred from a hungry flame even in the dim light. A ghost from his past, or a folly of the present - they are uncertain which is the truth when he was the most fervent about basking in Rosaria’s boundless love.

All they know is they are immediately possessed of an inexplicable desire to trace over the scars, to memorize the ridges and edges, to perhaps soothe the angry red that devoured his arm or drive it further between their ribs. Peering beneath the other’s mask, so to speak. The taste is sickeningly enticing.

Perhaps he was right about them. They were nothing more than a starved beast, potently intoxicated by the promise of intimacy conjured within their head. Depraved and disgusting, wanting to know more of him, uncaring if they found him scarred or burnt or hollowed. They slowly lift one hand before the map of warped skin can fade from their memory, their fingers hovering over the palm on their chest, nearly touching him-

Leonhard roughly withdraws with his spoils like a thorn pulled free. The sudden, visceral sensation leaves the Ashen One breathless and disoriented as they lurch forth.

A long moment of contemplation hangs between them. The Ashen One remains curled into themselves, focusing on the tattered rug beneath their feet. The study is deathly silent save for their pulse throbbing in the confines of their temples. If they were to meet his gaze, what would they find? Had Leonhard known what they had seen, or was he simply indulging in how pathetic they looked, heaving through bursting lungs as they collect themselves?

He finally makes a clipped hum as he stands over them. They raise their head, finding his mask as stoic as ever.

“Here,” The knight dips two of his fingers into the flask at his hip, then smears the sticky amber at their lips, encouraging them to partake. His thumb rests at their jaw, lifting their head further.

The sting of the incision and lingering dizziness prompt them to lap at his gloves without a second thought. The wound knits itself together, erasing any evidence of their affair. A vague sense of disappointment tugs at the back of their mind, only chased away when they catch themselves shamelessly holding the tips of his fingers in their mouth. With their wits regained, they feel the sudden desire to bite down on the offending digits in a fit of pique. 

Leonhard easily reads their expression, and withdraws his fingers before they can sink their teeth into him. The hand cradles the side of their face in a mockery of a tender gesture.

“That wasn't so bad, now was it?” His voice holds the hint of barely-stifled mirth. He pats them on the cheek, leaving a ruddy mess of blood in his wake. It belatedly dawns on the Ashen One that it was likely Leonhard enjoyed watching them squirm more than actually taking their souls.

“I would have preferred a leeching.” They reply dryly when he pulls away. “But I suppose not.” 

They allow themselves a moment to re-acquaint themselves with their faculties. They notice they are significantly lacking in souls within their hollow vessel. Leonhard had clearly taken a share that included the souls they carried before his intervention, but the Ashen One is too drained to be slighted. 

“Perhaps next time, if you’re so inclined to bring back some writhing specimen from the swamp like Yellowfinger. A pleasure doing business with you, Champion of Ash.” Leonhard futilely wipes his stained hand on a worn handkerchief, then stashes it away. He gives their pile of discarded armor a nod. “And do dress yourself before offering up your tongues. Walking about like that is indecent, even for this den of iniquity.” 

Right. They had forgotten about that part. As they move to gather their clothes, Leonhard silently slips out of the room. Back to Rosaria’s side, no doubt. They sigh and dress themselves, the series of mortifying events at the forefront of their thoughts all the while. Strangely enough, they find themselves dwelling on the possibility of another rendezvous and the muted giddiness that it brings. Such sentiments were unbecoming of a lordskeer, yet the existence of unkindled ash was one already marked by failure and shame. They count this as another blight on their name, to be so easily swayed by his capricious kindness.

_Trust me,_ he had said. The two words were enough to give them pause while clasping their armor together. They want to, but they wonder if they ever could.

But such musings were better left alone when they still had lords to chase and tongues to offer, and definitely not suited for the rotting interior of the hidden room. The Ashen One is sure to snuff out the last candle before leaving the study, following in his footsteps back to the sanctuary of the Goddess’ bedchamber.


End file.
